Secrets of Arkana Fortress (47 page)

              The corridor seemed to grow tighter as she walked further into her uncle’s hideout; the walls closing in making her feel like she was trapped inside a coffin. Her eyes closed, pressed firmly together until they ached. If there was one thing Evie hated, it was feeling like this; lost and frightened. She hated being weak.

              Her feet suddenly caught something on the floor and she tumbled forward, her chest hitting the hard, rough floor with shocking force. She heaved, winded by the impact. She struggled to open her eyes, clutching her hand to her front and cringing from the pain. A glance back made her hastily scuttle across the floor, her legs pushing her along as hard as they could. She held a hand over her mouth, more to stop herself from vomiting than anything else. A vile, putrid smell penetrated her nose as she crawled back like a petrified bug in the wake of a boot.

              What lay before her – what she had tripped over – was a half-rotten body. The odour of decaying flesh was overpowering. She recognised the body as being one of her uncle’s best men – Peccla. Her eyes gradually widened as she observed the crossbow bolt protruding from his chest; a massive, three or four foot long shaft of wood with rough green flights. What kind of crossbow could have fired such a bolt? Peccla’s sword lay gripped in his rigid, bony hand, not looking like it had helped its master’s life whatsoever in his final moments.

              Evie squeezed her eyes shut, wishing as hard as she could to wake up and see her uncle’s smiling face as he waited to hand her a hot mug of cider to help keep her warm. She would jump up and give him the fattest hug she could manage, careful not to squeeze him to death in the process.

              She slowly opened her eyes and felt the tears well up.

              She was still in the room with Peccla’s corpse. Letting out a small whimper she hugged her knees, wiping her face on her forearm. Why was this happening? Her reality was crashing down around her. Her uncle… where was he? Was he OK?

              A few hellish minutes passed.

              She could not stay here like this. What if the person who had done this returned, knowing that she would come back here to this place? It took everything she had to stand up and look around the rest of the corridor. She gave Peccla’s body one more glance.

              His sword…

              She reached down and carefully extracted the blade from his grip. ‘Sorry, Peccla,’ she whispered respectfully. She slid the sword into her belt and carried on, venturing deeper into the unknown.

              The next room she came across she knew all too well – the meeting room. Many a dreary day had been spent here, hunched over a table covered with maps, bottles of alcohol and stubbed out cigars. It now looked like a ball of fire had engulfed it. Had it been some kind of magic that had hit this place? Whatever had happened here had happened quite a while ago, maybe a week or so. The charring on the walls was dry and cold to the touch, the air chilling, and the table was covered with the fired-black dust of wars gone by.

              She ran a finger across the blackened patches on the walls and then wiped herself clean. There were half burned papers scattered around, seared bottles and broken glass covering the floor; and there was a lingering smell of death. What she felt was nothing but numbness from the shock at the sight of it all. What she found strange, however, was the distinct lack of bodies. There had been more than just Peccla in this place – there was supposed to be a couple of dozen resistance members.

              Her arm swung around as she heard a clatter from the next room, the sounds of metal objects clanging onto the floor. Someone else was in the hideout, very much alive. Was it the person who had killed Peccla? No, his body had been there for a while now – the killer would be long gone. Whoever it was, Evie had nothing but murderous intent throbbing inside her. She shook her head. Maybe it was her uncle Dedrick?

              Resisting the urge to burst through the door, she gently pushed it open with the tip of Peccla’s sword instead. Her face contorted with anger. In front of the fireplace in her uncle’s private meeting room was a slender man dressed in brown furs, and wearing a set of rough leather cap and boots. He was filling a sack with whatever precious metal object his sly hands came across. What irked her most of all was the lack of respect; it was something that looters never showed no matter where you went in Salarias, but then again what respect was there in looting the home of a dead man?

              A heavier flame of rage flickered in her heart as she watched the man pocket a pair of silver candlesticks – the gift she had given her uncle on his 50
th
birthday. Regardless of the fact that she had stolen them from an antique shop, she felt herself set on fire – her skin burning red from raw emotion.

              ‘Drop those fucking candlesticks, now!’ She bellowed in a shrill voice, pointing the sword at the looter’s back.

              The man froze, lifting his head and his hands, one of them still holding the sack full of precious loot.

              ‘Turn around… slowly.’

              His feet shuffled on the carpeted floor as he carefully did what he was told. His face crept into view – a stubbly, tanned complexion with large, dark grey eyes that assessed her all over. She could feel the edge of the man’s thoughts; lined with a mixture of worry and aggression that also touched her own mind given the circumstances.

              ‘Drop the sack and get out,’ Evie growled.

              The man stood stock still and stared her in the eyes, a placid mask of unreadable calmness about his expression.

              ‘Are you deaf, or just dumb?’

              He smiled, a set of gingivitis ridden teeth looking back at her. ‘Soz, little missy,’ he croaked in a broken, stressed voice. ‘This ‘ere sack o’ goodies is mine, understand?’ He jangled the sack of loot next to him. ‘I suggest ya sod off, ya stupid bitch.’ He adjusted his cap and stepped forward, his forearm pushing the sword to one side.

              Evie bit her tongue and brought the sword round, smacking the man in the side of the head with the flat of the blade. She watched him recoil, dropping the sack and holding his head as he stumbled to one side.

              ‘The fuck? Fuckin’ whore bag!’ he screamed amidst the pain. The tip of the sword pressed against his chest, almost piercing his clothing.

              ‘Tell me where my uncle is, you little sack of shit,’ Evie seethed.

              The looter frowned at her. ‘Your… uncle? Who?’

              ‘Dedrick Ranliss, dumb ass. This is his place you’re robbing.’ She pressed the sword further, hearing him whimper. She was startled when he laughed in her face.

              ‘Where the ‘ell you been? He’s dead.’

              His words hit her in the chest as if he were the one with the sword instead of her. It was what she had feared since leaving Donnol. She could feel her eyes tearing up, her sword arm shaking, and her heart pounding relentlessly against her chest in a valiant attempt to escape the sudden cage of torture.

              ‘You’re lying! Where is he?’ She sniffed heavily, scowling.

              The man rolled his eyes and smirked to himself. ‘Jus’ told ya, girl… he’s as dead as a fucking door nail. You not listenin’?’

              ‘Dead…?’ She glanced to the floor. ‘You know what happened?’

              ‘Kinda.’ The man wriggled against the cold tip of the sword. ‘I’ll tell ya if you put the sword away.’

              She lowered it to her side. ‘Go on then.’

              ‘I dunno much, but what I does know is that he didn’t stand a chance. Word is that a bunch o’ the Donnol guard raided this place along with some mercenary character – a cat man, so I ‘eard.’

              ‘Keep going.’

              ‘Nobody knows exactly what happened in ‘ere, but the rumour is that he and his girl was tortured and killed.’

              ‘Orlanna…’ Evie clenched her teeth. ‘Then what?’

              The man suddenly looked awkward. ‘You really wanna know?’ His eyes changed.

              Evie felt dread rape her stomach. Did she really want to know? What if they had humiliated her uncle after his demise?

              She nodded hesitantly.

              ‘I is sorry, but they showed his head round the streets in some kind o’ parade. They claimed the rebellion they’d fought against was finally over.’

              More tears came forth. ‘Who? Who did this?’

              ‘That cap’n of the Donnol guard… Orellok, I think ‘is name is.’

              Evie’s expression changed to one of vengeful rage.

              ‘You gots no chance o’ getting to him if that’s what you’re thinking of,’ the man said with some fathomable essence of reasoning. ‘Since the problems with more and more Psyloss people gots worse, the entire city’s been under martial law.’

              She stayed silent. A reflective glaze filmed over her eyes, tinged with bloodshot tears. ‘There’s always time when it comes to revenge.’

***

Carlo clutched his head, falling through the alleyway with a confused gait. He grunted, sweated, and groaned as the pain grew inside his head to the point of intolerance. He could not stand the knifing feeling going through his head.

              What was this?

              Something had gotten to him after he managed to bypass the soldiers fighting the crazy woman. His headache had rapidly increased in intensity the past couple of hours, bringing him to the point where he wanted to rip it off his shoulders and stamp on it. His mind was fuzzy, his thoughts staggered and erratic.

              All he knew was the pain.

              He crumpled down. His shoulder smacked against the floor, bringing about a brief but welcome pain that distracted him from the one in his head. It lasted for all but a split-second. The sensation was immense, as powerful as the sun’s heat… and more so. He cried; cried hard. He wanted it to stop. He could not focus on a single thought – it was all a blur.

              ‘Fuck,’ he whimpered before screaming loudly, his cries bouncing off the walls for nobody to hear.

              Something flashed in his mind’s eye – something dark, distant, and incredibly powerful. Streaks of magic whipped through the blackness of his vision, stroking his mind and then taking an unbreakable hold on it, crushing it with an invisible yet tangible hand. He saw himself falling into a void, being swallowed up into nothingness. His conscience was slowly ebbing away, subdued by an evil that was now taking him over. With his last glimpse of awareness he saw a face laughing at him silently – it was his own.

              The darkness won.

              The pain stopped.

              Carlo was gone, locked away by dark madness. What had taken his place was a pure evilness that grinned in the murky alleyway.

Chapter 33

Outside of the mighty city of Donnol the night was growing colder with an ill touch of death, decaying and toxic. Wind batted the trees about like rag dolls, flicking their branches carelessly and maliciously.

              Amidst the chilling presence there was a flicker; a flame of hope that burned through the dim shroud that was covering the expanse.

              A hearty fire had been made using Franlet’s surprising handiwork with dried wood and a couple of flint stones. She was showing resourcefulness that Kelken had not known in her before. He had asked her about the many hidden talents she kept showing, and she had simply reminded him: ‘I have read probably every book ever written… do you expect there to be something about simple survival that I do not know?’ It had warmed his heart, if that was even possible in his opinion. He was reassured about how reliable Franlet could be – many years ago he had always been able to rely on her in times of crisis and hardship as she was always willing to listen.

              ‘How much longer do you expect her to be?’ Breena had asked San Kiln as she busied herself with trimming down some hardwood to make arrows with.

              San Kiln kept his yellowy eyes fixated on the flames of the campfire as they licked the night air like a hundred wild snakes. ‘No idea,’ he murmured beneath a deep purr. ‘She’s been gone for a while now.’ He brought his knees up to lean on. ‘She hasn’t got long left.’

              Breena stopped her knifing and held the arrow up against the light, checking to see how straight she had gotten it. ‘My dad won’t wait around long for her or her friend,’ she said; it was a matter of fact rather than simple pessimism or doubt. ‘If he’s got something he feels he needs to do, then he will want to do it as soon as possible.’ She resumed trimming.

              San Kiln purred softly, thoughtfully. His eyes tore themselves away from the hypnotising embers of the fire, and over towards Franlet who was sitting on a large log on the other side of the fire, her head leaning to one side, resting on her hand. In her other hand was the tome. San slowly licked his lips, noting the Bullwark’s intensity into the text; speaking the words on the pages to herself in the native tongue.